#Ineffable Gymnast

[searchingforakeythatdoesntexist]

It started as it will end, with a garden with this post -> link

"Stuntman / Stuntwoman / Stuntperson: a person employed to take an actor's place in performing dangerous stunts on purpose"

Day 12 : “Funnier my way” - Good Omens, Gymnast/StuntPerson AU

Aziraphale *angry*: You're being silly! Hurting yourself like this...

Crowley *pouty*: Naaah. Stunt person, that's what I am!

Aziraphale: Well, Dear, it is dangerous. *sigh*

Crowley: *sigh loudly* It's not if you're doing it professionaly. And I am. Very professional. Me.

Aziraphale: ...

Crowley: ...

Aziraphale *kindly*: Does it still hurt?

Crowley *softly*: ...Yeah. Still hurts. But doing it my way is funnier, Angel.

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Don't forget to 💕/ reblog ;-)

Personal challenge: a simple sketch each day

Goal: forcing me to keep things simple - inking, shading, just a few sashes of colour

Improvement pursued: to get the movement, the emotion, finding how to add depth, learning how to leave things barely finished

Max time allowed: 2 hours instead of 8-20 on my previous projects - well, 2 hours for the complete sketch, then 1 more hour for editing their lovely quotes - AND drawing the Minisnake!Crowley.

Today's theme chosen by me: Well, this time it definitely feels like it's the theme that HAS CHOSEN me. I was scrolling on Tumblr and found this old "Gymnast Vs Stuntwoman" video I have already seen on YouTube months ago. But my GO-rotten brain made me think "WOAAA this is splendid AziraCrow Arrangement's vibes, doesn't it'". Aaaand... Voilà.

Trivia: when I started this Challenge, I wasn't very comfortable with Aziraphale soft curves - partly because I always tried to draw unrealistic bodies and "healthy" (whatever that means) silhouettes, and partly because it reminds me of my own bigger roundnesses and I can't stop feeling ashamed about it. But now I like to draw realistic Aziraphale more and more, sometimes plushy, sometimes a little bit more muscular (you'll see it in my future Ice Skating Tribute). It is a long road for me, but I like it a little more each day .

Trivia2: I love so much their wings tattoos. And I am particularly proud of the winged-sword because when I imagined it, it only took 10 minutes doing it. I am having so much fun in this Challenge, because I don't have time to think or hesitate. It's very refreshing for an indecisive and perfectionist artist like me.

How did it start? I reblogged here but my brain didn't want to stop...

"Hey, Good Omens Fam, listen, listen.

Is it just my Good-Omens-rotting brain speaking, or there is some Aziraphale/Crowley's Arrangement vibes here?

Feels like a kind of funny Fem!AU to me...

Aziraphale: If I may? *performs their gymnastic routine with a perfect sense of timing, beautiful and powerful, everything is neat, calculated, an rightful Angel in disguise with their sculptural body and their lovely blond curls*

Crowley: My turn. *performs the exact same gymnastic routine with an almost-perfect sense of timing, failling clumsy and weirdly sensual, everything seems chaotic but it IS (?) calculated, an bloody Demon in disguise with their messy gestures and their red disheveled long hair*

Aziraphale: ...

Crowley: WOT? Job done!

Aziraphale, *sincerely concerned* : Mate, didn't you just hurt yourself on this last jump?

Crowley, *blushing*: Ha! No way. I am a professional. Very professional, me.

Aziraphale: ... ... .... *raise eyebrows*

Crowley, *blushing A LOT*: ...Yeah. Still hurts. But my way is funnier, Angel.

Aziraphale: Oh dear. 🥺🙄😌"

And YES, the stuntwoman dit it ON PURPOSE - almost of it. See for yourself, they are so lovely, having so much fun together.

[fanboundbooks]

These are copies of 'Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma' and its sequel 'Angel-Centered Therapy Through a Multicultural Lens' by @mouseonamoose, Nmn on AO3.

I made two copies of these one set for the author and another for @ineffablesilversmith (who made a donation via The Ineffable Con to Alzheimer's research in honor of Sir Terry Pratchett. Thank you for your donation!)

Each book follows the therapy sessions of Crowley and Aziraphale respectively so it felt like a perfect chance to finally get to make outfit themed book covers! Figuring out the cutting of the different fabrics to put the books together took more mental gymnastics then I had originally anticipated, but we all made it through the process and I was very pleased with the final results.

I was lucky to find perfect end papers large enough for two sets of each book at the local book arts center. This set took a long time, finding and compiling all the elements, special ordering Aziraphale's tartan, making my first ever set of rounded and backed books, there were a lot of little things that piled up to make it take many more months then I was hoping it would. But like I said I am really glad with how it all came together and so glad I got to read and build the story.

Also shout out to my Crowley and Aziraphale who helped prop open the books for the photo shoot. 😆

[ineffable-ezra]

Everytime I remember that Crowley and Aziraphale ACTUALLY KISSED ON SCREEN I lose my mind.

i've really been queerbaited so many times that i sometimes think i've gaslit myself into thinking my queer ships aren't canon.

I still sometimes do mental gymnastics to prove their love for each other. I say things like "Oh, this scene parallels this famous romcom movie, sad ineffable husbands isn't actually canon" and then I remember that THEY ARE.

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

The funny thing about ineffable husbands is that even though we have literally gotten explicit confirmation they they have very very romantic feelings for each other I still find myself doing the royai thing of doing mental gymnastics to find evidence of their love bc there are still people out there who insist they they are Bros even after we LITERALLY SEE THEM KISS ON THE MOUTH!!! NOT A LITTLE PECK!!! NOT AN ACCIDENTAL KISS FOR THE LOLS!!! A COMPLETELY SERIOUS, PASSIONATE, ON PURPOSE KISS THAT LASTS EIGHTEEN SECONDS!!!!!

Btw 18 seconds does not sound that long. As a musical theatre vocalist I can tell you that we usually start getting tired after 12. He kisses aziraphale longer than the final note of one day more.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Don’t Let Me Fall, Chapter 5

A/N  I’d like to go on the record and say that I didn’t plan this.  By which I mean, from the beginning of this story, I planned the pivotal scene in this chapter.  And sometime in 2021, I booked my accommodation for this weekend’s getaway.  But the fact that the scene and the accommodation happen to be in the same place?  Pure kismet.  But great for real-life research!   Also, this chapter is ridiculously long, but I don’t have the heart to cut it in two, so you’re just going to have to deal with 7,000 or so words all at once.  There’s also an endnote, because I don’t want to spoil anything by including it here.  With that said, please read and enjoy!

Previous chapters can be found here.

“Oh my god.  Don’t look now, Claire, but Sergei Panteleenko is watching us!”

Since John and I were in the midst of a single-arm hold twenty feet above the mat, his admonishment was redundant.  I could tell by his unusually animated tone that this was a noteworthy occurrence, but I had no idea why.

“Who’s Sergei Panteleenko?” I asked when we had returned to two points of contact with the straps each, preparing for the next move.

The nylon bands lifted us higher as John spun me around his torso like a hula hoop until I was dangling horizontally from his ankles.  I took a moment to glance down to the platform below, where a man with a receding hairline and a gymnast’s build was speaking with Bruno, the aerials coach.   Mr. Panteleenko, I presumed.

“I forget how green you are sometimes,” John admitted when we both returned to vertical. “He’s the Chief Talent Officer.  All the discipline heads, coaches and talent scouts report to him. If he’s here, it’s because a casting change is in the works.  I haven’t heard of any injuries on the touring shows…”

The director of the Royal Ballet would regularly attend rehearsals, so this all felt rather mundane to me, but it was clear John felt otherwise. He’d been a very patient teacher, so I did my best to make him look good.  If he was promoted to a lead role, I supposed I’d be in the market for a new partner.

I wished I could tell John to loosen up.  It seemed that the more he concentrated on making a strong impression, the less natural his movements became.  If there was one thing my years of ballet had taught me, it was that the ineffable quality that people called stage presence couldn’t be manufactured through effort.  It was a state of being that could only be reached, counter-intuitively, by giving over a certain amount of control to instinct.

After several more minutes of practicing various combinations, we were lowered to the mat and relieved of our safety harnesses.  The elusive Mr. Panteleenko was nowhere to be found and I wondered if John had blown the entire situation out of proportion.

“Great work up there, you two,” Bruno said as he joined us on the mat.  “Now, John, there was still a moment of hesitation during that second roll-up. They both need to be completely fluid to carry the momentum into the meat hook…”

I could tell that John was disappointed to only be receiving our usual post-routine debrief.  My mind wandered as Bruno continued to give him his notes.  Was Sergei Panteleenko the person who saw something in my ballet scouting tapes that even I couldn’t see?  It seemed likely, given his role.  After nearly two months at Cirque des Etoiles, I had to admit he’d been right. Flying through the air while suspended by the straps felt like coming home.  The physical effort was greater than any I’d ever known, but at the same time mastering each new skill felt effortless, as though my body had been patiently waiting for me to realize this was what I should have been doing all along.

“Can you come with me to the administration wing, Claire?” Bruno’s voice interrupted my reverie.  “Sergei would like to speak with you.”

I glanced at John to ensure I hadn’t misheard our coach.  His stunned expression confirmed that I had not.

“Did you need me to come along as well, Bruno?”  The Hail Mary hopefulness in John’s tone made my heart ache for him.

“No, you’re all done for today, John.  Feel free to take a well-deserved break.”

I couldn’t look back and witness John’s confusion and betrayal, so I kept my eyes fixed on Bruno’s muscular shoulders as he led me down the labyrinth of hallways.

***

Jamie looked up as Claire entered the well-appointed office. The day had been a progression of surprises.  First, Geneva had been absent at their morning practice.   He’d then received a message to meet Sergei Panteleenko at one o’clock.  And now the arrival of Claire Beauchamp, whose own practice had recently concluded, judging by her clothing and the opalescent flush of her skin.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” Claire whispered after the door closed behind Bruno.

“No’ the faintest.  I can tell ye it’s something big.  The last time I was in Panteleenko’s office I was a young rookie of twenty and about to be elevated to a principal role for the first time.”

Jamie comforted himself that no-one got called into the Chief Talent Officer’s presence to be demoted or fired.

Before he could ponder the mystery any further, the man in question arrived, still fit and trim in his trademark Puma tracksuit.  He closed the door firmly behind him.

“Miss Bee-cham, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.” He kissed Claire quickly on both cheeks before shaking Jamie’s hand.  “James.  You’re looking well.”

Both performers sat in silence while the middle-aged man settled behind his desk.

“Well, I’ll get right into it.  You’re no doubt wondering why I called you to see me today.  I have to stress that what I’m about to share is strictly confidential and may not leave this room.”  

Waiting a beat for Jamie and Claire to acknowledge him, the Russian continued.  

“Geneva Dunsany is pregnant.  She will obviously be unable to perform for the foreseeable future. It’s too late to recast from any of our other shows or bring in new talent.  Tropico will go on tour in less than eight weeks, and the aerials performance is central to the entire show.”

Jamie frowned, both at the current predicament and the fact that Claire’s eyes had shot his way upon Sergei’s announcement that Geneva was with child.  

“… incredibly impressed with your progress to date…” He must have tuned out for a moment because the talent executive was now speaking directly to Claire.  “I understand that I’m asking a lot, but I wouldn’t be doing so if I didn’t think you were up to the challenge.”

Claire.  Panteleenko was asking Claire to be his aerials partner.  Claire, of the Corryvreckan hair and the hungry predator’s eyes. Claire, with her otherworldly poise and effortless grace.  Claire, with less than six weeks’ aerials experience and a weak Achilles tendon.

“What about her injury?” he asked.  If Jamie knew one thing about Claire Beauchamp, it was that she would do anything to return to her job as a prima ballerina, even move halfway around the world and join the circus to improve her chances of rehabilitation.  To reinjure herself now would spell the definitive end to her career, and the punishing practice schedule they would be on made re-injury a very real possibility.

“Her physical therapist assures me the tendon is nearly ninety percent healed.  Of course, there are no guarantees, which is why I’d like you both to take the next day before giving me your decision.”

Claire stuttered out her gratitude for the opportunity and they both left the office.

In the hallway, Jamie stood in a daze, trying to catch up with the past ten minutes of his life.  On the one hand, he was elated.  The English tourist had captivated him from the first, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t dreamed of flying with her in his arms again.  But that fantasy paled in the face of the severe reality facing them. Hours upon hours of practice, both on and off the straps.  The deafening gabble of the other performers, each with their own gossip or grievance to air. And John.  Their friendship was already on shaky footing.  Jamie held no illusions that the other man wouldn’t be tremendously hurt by this turn of events.  And by no means least of all, Geneva.  She’d never made a secret of her pursuit of him.  After his breakup with Anna-Louise, people would draw some damning conclusions about the parentage of her child, once word got out.

He could at least set the record straight in that regard.

“The bairn isna mine.”

Claire’s unique eyes, previously foggy with inner reflection, snapped up to his own.

“If we’re to be partners, there needs to be absolute trust between us.  I believe that leaves room fer secrets, but no’ lies.  I dinna ken what ye may have heard, but Gen and I were ne’er lovers. No’ fer lack of trying on her part, I might add.”

“I…” Claire began.  “Thank you.  For telling me.”

“Are ye okay, Tourist?  I ken it’s a lot to take in, but ye dinna have to decide this instant.”

Claire pushed away from the wall where she had been leaning like a storm-tossed mariner.  With her regal posture and defiant chin lifted, she still barely cleared his shoulder.

“I am absolutely going to do this, Jamie Fraser.  The troupe needs me.  My only apprehension is not knowing where to begin.”

His admiration for her pluck grew until it pressed, warm as coal fire, against his chest.  In retrospect, it wasn’t a surprising response, this rising to meet adversity head-on.  And damned if it didn’t light something long dormant in the furnace of his own purpose. Before they dug into the technicalities, however, there was one monumental obstacle to overcome.

“Do ye own a decent pair of hiking boots?”

At her confused nod, he asked her to meet him outside the dorms at seven the following morning.

“Dress fer the outdoors, Tourist!” he directed as he jogged away, more optimistic than he had any right to be.

***

I slept poorly, a conga line of thoughts parading through my mind on repeat.  When I wasn’t thinking of the mountain of challenges – choreography, learning new skills, costuming, travel logistics – that the next two months presented, I pondered Jamie’s odd request.  We had no time to waste, and he wanted to hit the trails?

My alarm shook me from the middle of a strange dream.  Outside, the sky was a hopeful grey, the sun not yet risen as Canadian autumn gained ground.  I splashed cold water on my face, dressed in my best (only) outdoor wear and trudged downstairs to meet Jamie.  The air was crisp enough to make me happy to see Jamie leaning casually against a small car. If he had a Thermos of coffee nearby, the morning might yet be saved.

As Jamie stowed my day pack next to his in the truly miniscule trunk, I took a moment to admire him.  I’d grown somewhat acclimated to seeing his impressive musculature on display, given that we spent our days in workout gear, but something about his fitted pants and brightly hued down vest only emphasized how ridiculously fit he was.

And tall.  Even with the driver’s seat pushed as far back as it could go, his knees were still grazing the bottom of the dashboard.  He expelled a low, grumbling sigh as he tried to adjust further, but it was no use.  The car was one of those two-seat European economy models, hopelessly ill-equipped for well over six feet of strapping Scot.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I drove?” I finally suggested when his noises of frustration gained expletives.

“Aye, I suppose,” he conceded before beginning the labourious process of unpacking himself from the driver’s seat.

“Whose car is it?” I asked as I adjusted the seat for my much smaller frame, trying to remember how to drive on the right-hand side of the road. At least the car wasn’t a standard.

“Rémi.  The master of ceremonies for Tropico, ye ken?”

Picturing the slight man who sight gags warmed the audience up between acts, I startled to chuckle.

“Twas the best I could manage on short notice,” Jamie explained, eyeing me warily as my chuckles turned to guffaws.

“Are ye alright, Tourist?  Yer not getting hysterical on me, are ye?”

I was gasping by this point, tears pouring down my cheeks. Perhaps it was a touch of hysteria, but it was also bloody hilarious.

“Jamie…we’re driving in an actual clown car…” I finally managed to wheeze out before bursting back into peals of laughter.

Beside me there was a grunt of acknowledgement, followed by a pleasant rumble of a laugh.

“Oh my god, I really needed that,” I said as the moment faded away, using my sleeve to dab any stray tears from my face.

“Are ye nervous, then, Claire?”  His use of my given name underlined the seriousness of the question, and I gave it the consideration it was due.

“I am, but more about the unknown than the actual routine, if that makes any sense.”

“Aye, it does.  I’ll help ye anyway I ken how.  Fer today, though, jes try to relax and push all that to the back of yer mind, aw’right?”

Easier said than done, but I vowed to do my best.  I hadn’t been acquainted with Jamie for very long, but if there was one thing I knew with certainty, it was that he was incredibly deliberate.  If he did something, it had a purpose, so whatever this adventure of his was meant to accomplish, he felt it was worth it.

Our transportation hijinks over, Jamie programmed an address into the GPS and off we went.  It was Tuesday and we were driving against the flow of traffic into the city, but the motorways were still busy with fast-moving vehicles of every description. My circus concerns were pre-empted by the very immediate need to keep us alive.

“I haven’t seen driving like this since my summer in Tangier!” My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the GPS hurling out lane changes faster than I could execute them.

“Aye, it’s the official combat sport of Quebec,” Jamie informed me between glances over his shoulder for oncoming death.  “Took me a while to get used to it, but now I ken the rules, it’s kinda fun.”

If I could have spared him a disbelieving stare, I would have.  Instead, I applied the brakes as hard as I could when the transport truck in front of me mysteriously came to a dead stop.

“What are the rules, exactly?” I asked as we slowly regained speed.

“Well, first, using yer indicator only gives the other drivers something to aim for. Signaling is a sign of weakness. Second, you must accelerate in inverse proportion to the amount of space between ye and the next car, so as no’ to let anyone creep inta yer lane.  Honking is best saved fer apologizing after the fact.  And never, under any circumstances, unless ye are Gilles Villeneuve himself, travel in the fast lane fer longer than sixty seconds.”

I absorbed this arcane advice as we passed over a wide river, through an endless suburb of kebab restaurants, hot tub dealerships and marble countertop warehouses, and then finally over another bridge and out into open country.  The traffic eased and I was able to look around for the first time.

“There are mountains!”

Save for its eponymous peak, Montreal was incontestably flat. For an Englishwoman used to hills and dales, I had noticed straight away.  Now that we had cleared the city’s edges and its associated low-lying haze, I could see we were driving between parallel lines of hills, each covered in a mix of evergreen and broadleaf trees.  The further north we drove, the higher the hills became, and the more colourful the leaves.  We passed a ski resort, then another.

“Where are you taking us, Fraser?  The Rockies?”

“Did they no’ give ye an orientation when ye arrived in Canada, Tourist?  Rockies are to the west.  We’re heading north.”  I could practically see the smug lilt to his mouth, even though I was concentrating on exiting the motorway onto a two-lane rural road.  

“No, they just shoved me into arms of a bloody Scottish barbarian and expected me to fend for myself,” I replied.

Jamie made a grunt that I took to mean he was amused by my retort but said nothing further.  It was clear he had no intention of telling me where we were bound, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of trying to pry it out of him.

Forty minutes later, I pulled into a large gravel parking lot. Nearby a slow-flowing river dark with tannins wove through a forest at the base of a sheer rockface.  The sun had burned through the morning’s cloud and the colours of the treetops were electric in their vibrancy.  Cabernet red, lemon yellow, persimmon orange veined in aubergine; Mother Nature had spilled her cornucopia over every available surface.

“We’re here, Tourist,” Jamie announced needlessly.

“Yes, I can see that.  Where’s here, exactly?”

“Mont Tremblant National Park.  Did ye no’ see the sign?”

In truth, I had been too busy blinking in amazement at the Crayola box surroundings to notice much else.  I knew Mont Tremblant was a popular ski resort, but only a lunatic would try to slalom down the vertical rock face before us.  A niggling doubt took up residence in my throat.

“Jamie…” I began, trying very hard not to let my apprehension manifest itself as bossiness.

“Ye needn’t be afraid, Claire.  I willna let anything bad befall ye.”  

“It’s the befall part that’s worrying me,” I confessed.

“Aye, I ken.  And that’s why we’re here.  Come wi’ me.”

We were soon kitted out in climbing harnesses not dissimilar to our practice equipment at the circus.  But where our safety apparatus attached to a long elastic rope suspended from the metal rafters in the Fly Zone, these rigs had two short straps, each with a carabiner at its end.  We were also issued helmets.

“At least if I tumble to my death, my brain can still be donated to science,” I jested as we walked down a narrow trail towards the river.

“Ye’ve a very dark sense of humour, Tourist,” Jamie remarked over his shoulder.

The first obstacle halted any further banter.  Two wooden towers were connected by a triad of braided metal ropes that spanned the burbling river.  While not technically very high, the air between the cables invited vertigo.  Jamie watched me as I peered over the edge of the tower, trying to judge the depth of the water.

“Would ye rather I go first, Tourist, so ye can see how easy it is?”

“And leave me here all alone?  I bloody think not,” I retorted.

“Ladies first, then.  Jes clip yer carabiners to the left-hand guide wire, and dinna unclip either of them til yer back on solid ground.”

Fat chance of that happening, I mentally snarked.

The single wire bowed and shook with my first tentative steps. With both hands firmly gripping the guide wires, I began to sashay the thirty or so metres to the other side. Jamie whooped in encouragement from behind me, but I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the far platform.

Stepping onto the wooden deck at the other side, I bubbled with elation.  I’d done it. In retrospect, it hadn’t been hard at all.   Far less dangerous than the car ride to get there, and I hadn’t balked at that challenge.

“Well done, Tourist.”  Jamie’s voice from just behind me caused me to jump.  He must have scampered across like the giant cat he often resembled.

The obstacles grew progressively more extreme as we made our way up and across the cliff face.  Metal ladder rungs drilled directly into the rock helped us gain altitude, while horizontal footholds between narrow ledges moved us laterally.  The valley bottom drifted away, as did the tops of the tallest trees growing at the base of the cliff.

As I grew more confident in my skills, I took more time to look around.  Jamie and I were two insignificant specks in an immense tableau of grandeur.  It was humbling, but somehow peaceful at the same time.  The challenges were still there, but I only had to do my job to overcome them.  The rest of the world would continue to spin ever forwards, whether I worried about it or not.

“It’s astonishing, is it no’?” Jamie asked when we paused together before a single log spanning a deep crevasse.  “Reminds me of a painting by Gaughin, all saturated colours and strong vertical lines.”

“Did you ever consider becoming an artist, like your mother?” I asked. “You seem to have a gift for seeing beauty in a unique way.”

Mineral blue eyes assessed me before he answered.

“Tis kind of ye to say.  I took some classes when I was young, but I ne’er felt it was my calling. What about ye?  Did ye always want to be a ballerina?”

I smiled, thinking of my long-suffering Uncle Lamb and what he would say if he could see me now.

“Pretty much.  I mean, I went through the usual childhood phases of wanting to be a veterinarian or an astronaut, but ever since I can remember, I’ve felt drawn to dance.  It was one constant in my nomadic upbringing.”

We lapsed into silence, each lost in our memories.  Warm wind gusts rose up the cliff face, making Jamie’s hair dance in the sunlight.  It was a perfect complement to the autumn colours that surrounded us.  I tried to imagine him as a child, all elbows and knees with impudence kissing his lips.

“I brought ye up here,” he began without looking away from the view, “because I kent ye came to the circus wi’ some baggage related to yer injury. About trusting yer partner, and maybe trusting yerself as well.  I hope ye dinna mind, but I found a video of yer last performance online.  I studied it. Mebbe t’would help to hear it from an impartial party, Claire, but ye did nothin’ wrong.  His footing was all wrong and he let ye down.”

Memories of that night rose in my mind like smoke, obscuring the bright sunshine.  The tight pinch of Frank’s grip on my waist.  The noticeable wobble as I sailed through the air, like a child’s spinning toy knocked askew.  Frank’s inability to meet my eyes as two stagehands carried me to the wings and out to a waiting ambulance.

“He insinuated it was because I’d gained some weight,” I confessed quietly.  “That it threw off his balance.”

Beside me, Jamie scoffed.  I could well imagine his thoughts regarding a man who would blame a rail-thin woman for being too heavy, instead of owning up to his own failings. To his credit, he gave none of those thoughts voice.

“Regardless of where the blame lies, ye’ve got good cause to no’ trust a partner.  And Claire, if there is one way in which an aerial pairing canna fail, it’s trust. It must live inside them like breath. It canna falter, no’ even for a second. The results could be fatal.”

Intellectually, I understood what Jamie was telling me. When you were spinning twenty metres above a hard surface with only another’s handhold or even a foothold between you and the crushing consequences of gravity, there was no room for doubt.  It wasn’t the kind of subrogation of self-reliance I’d ever asked of myself.

“I trust you, Jamie,” I said resolutely, because I knew it was true.

“Aye, I ken ye do.  But do ye trust yerself?”

His question took me aback.  Did I?  Did I believe in my ability to hold on?  To fail neither myself, nor Jamie?

A metallic clang and a tug at my waist broke into my soul searching. Jamie had unclipped his lead carabiner from the guide wire and fixed it to my safety harness.  I watched in amazement as he did the same with the second safety line.

“I trust ye, Tourist.”  His soul-deep eyes regarded me seriously, lustrous as mercury, before he turned towards the narrow bridge and began to advance.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I could not seriously be considering this lunacy.  What if I fell, and pulled him down with me?  What if he fell, and I couldn’t support his weight?

The world narrowed to a few key sensations.  The warmth of sunlight on my cheeks.  The acidic resin of pine needles.  Above us, the graceful ellipses of a turkey vulture, playing in the updrafts.

We’d been on the via ferrata for an hour at this point. In that time, Jamie’s footing hadn’t faltered once.  He was careful, deliberate, and had the effortless balance of a cat.

I hadn’t lost my balance either, I realized.  Caution and fear had given way to thorough enjoyment, but every step had been true.  Holding fast to that knowledge, I followed Jamie out onto the span.  

The two straps connecting us left about four feet of slack, so I timed my movements to Jamie’s advance.  The crevasse yawned beneath my feet, giving a clear view of the valley bottom hundreds of feet below.  I concentrated on my breathing.  Right foot, inhale.  Left foot, exhale.  Jamie was a luminous outline in my peripheral vision.  Autonomous.  Responsible for his own safety, yet reliant on my own autonomy as well.  The awareness of that symbiosis settled like a concrete anchor in my soul.

He was waiting for me on the far side, a smile brighter than all our surroundings lighting his face.  I threw myself into his arms with a laugh, finding sure footing in his embrace.

“Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again without warning me first!” I chided as Jamie once again clipped himself into the guide wires to begin our descent.

“Aye, ye have my word,” he promised solemnly.  

“I’m more than a wee bit hungry,” he added with a grin.  “Want to get off this mountain and find someplace for breakfast, partner?”

A/N So, I’ve done the Via Ferrata in Mont Tremblant with my son, and it is exactly as described.  You cannot, however, just wander onto it solo.  Every group is led by a guide.  That obviously didn’t work for my purposes, so I took some creative liberties.  Also, don’t ever unclip like Jamie.  That’s just stupid.  But hey, anything in the name of dramatic fiction!

[queenofshenanigans]

Not my brain doing mental gymnastics at 2am drawing parallels to Zuko needing to separate from Uncle Iroh to find his true path to redemption, and Aziraphale needing to separate from Crowley to find his path to ineffability in this essay I will

[im-not-a-virgo-im-a-lesbo]

Twenty Questions

Thank you, @embracing-the-ineffable, for the tag!

Currently consuming: Doctor Who (new interest) and Good Omens (hyperfixation)

First ship: Percabeth when I was like eight.

Do you have kids? Not currently.

What sport do you play/have you played? I don't play anything right now, but I used to do gymnastics and dance.

Are you most likely to be sincere or sarcastic? Really depends on the person, and the circumstance lol.

How many tabs are open in your browser? 225, and most of them are ao3

What's your favorite color? Deep red.

Favorite drink: Hot chocolate or fruit juices.

Last movie: Technically speaking, it was Groundhog Day, but I'm not counting that because it wasn't my choice, so the new Mean Girls.

Scary movies or happy endings? I really like both, and it depends on my mood.

When was the last time you cried? It was either when I watched Waitress the other day or when I got super burnt out, I can't remember.

Any talents? Well, I do a lot of art that I think is really good, I write, I participate in plays, I play the ukulele and clarinet, and I'm currently learning ASL.

Talent you wish you had: I wish I could play the guitar.

What are your hobbies? I've been playing Resident Evil lately, so probably that.

Do you have pets? Yes! Four! I have 1 dog (Lucy) and 3 cats (Patrick, James, and Bernard).

Super power you wish you had? Teleportation.

Dream job: Tattoo artist! Which I am currently working to achieve!

Dream vacation: Just all of Europe lmao.

How would you change the world if you could? (Or what are you passionate about?) I would probably make it so that we would all get along better.

Currently working on? Several fanfics, a digital painting of Crowley, and a few watercolor paintings.

Tags! (No pressure):

@chaotic-and-mentally-ill @thatacefuckboy @omegamason1116 @charqre @internaldramahc @green-cargaytions @returnofthecabbageman @ayla-has-hella-issues-ovo

And anybody else who'd like to join!

[mimisempai]

If you knew how amazing you are for me

Summary

Mycroft is surprised when Greg starts doing crossword puzzles, but his surprise was even greater when he discovered the reason for his lover's new hobby.

Notes

Mystrade Monday 2.0  #96 “It hurts.”

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

On Ao3

Rating G - 912 words

"A nine-letter word for too big or extreme to be expressed or described in words."

Greg was talking to himself as he did the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. He muttered again, "How does he always fill them in?"

He gasped as a hand came to rest on his shoulder and Mycroft's voice echoed above him, "Do I have to worry about you talking to yourself?"

Greg chuckled and tilted his head back to look at his lover who leaned over and kissed him tenderly before getting a cup of coffee. 

He asked him gently, "Would you like some?"

Greg looked down at his half-full cup and shook his head, "No, I'm good." He chewed on his pencil, determined to finish this grid.

Mycroft came and sat down beside him with his cup and leaned over to look at the grid. He marveled, "Oh, I see you've filled it quite well already."

Greg sighed, "Yes, but now I'm stuck."

"What word?" asked Mycroft.

"A nine letter word for 'too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words'. Ah, wait, I found something," he wrote a word and continued, "with F in the fourth square and E in the last."

Mycroft immediately replied, "Ineffable."

Greg wrote down the word and exclaimed, "Perfect! Thank you!"

Under Mycroft's astonished gaze, he continued the grid and was able to complete it quickly, Mycroft's word having unlocked the few squares he was still missing.

He put down his pencil and folded the newspaper before pushing it aside with a satisfied look on his face. Then he looked up at Mycroft, who was still looking at him, this time his expression a little confused.

Greg asked him, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mycroft replied kindly, "I'm surprised, I didn't know you liked to do that."

Greg chuckled as he replied, "Oh, it's not that I particularly like it. But it does make me do some mental gymnastics to keep up with you guys."

Mycroft frowned and asked, "What do you mean?"

Greg chuckled again, "Well, you know, when you're in a room with three big brains, it hurts to realize that no matter what you do, you're not going to be up to it. So I train."

He chuckled before continuing, "But don't worry, I know I still have work to do."

He took a sip of coffee, but Mycroft knew a deflection when he saw one and placed his hand gently on Greg's arm, saying softly, "Greg, when you say it hurts, it's not an exaggeration, is it? And don't lie to me, I will know."

Greg sighed and looked away, out of the window, "I'm just lucid, you and Sherlock are geniuses, John has all this medical knowledge too, I know I'll never be on your level."

Mycroft's heart ached for his lover and wanted to refute his words immediately. He grabbed his chin and turned it towards him before saying quietly but persuasively, "You, Gregory Lestrade, don't have our deductive mind, John's academics, some of our knowledge, but that doesn't make you any less valuable..." Greg tried to break free of his grip, but Mycroft continued firmly, "Let me finish, will you? I was saying that you have something more that we are lacking, at least my brother and I, and that is the intelligence of the heart. You have a deep sense of humanity and that, believe me, puts you far above our level."

Greg muttered, "I don't need a consolation prize."

Mycroft shook his head, "It's not that. It's the truth. Greg, what you've got there," he gently pressed Greg's chest where his heart was and continued, "is far more valuable. It's what makes you a great cop. It's what makes you able to handle every Holmes, Anderson, Donovan, Dimmock in the world at once. It's what makes people naturally trust you. That's priceless. It's what makes you so lovable, at least in my eyes." 

He gave him a lingering kiss, wanting to convey all the sincerity of what he had just said to him in his kiss, and then, as they parted to catch their breath, he added with a smile, "I've got a riddle for you, seven letters, policeman I'm madly in love with, who has no idea what an extraordinary person he is."

Greg chuckled, "Idiot."

Mycroft replied, "It's not seven letters, I'll give you a hint, it starts with a G."

Greg, seeing that Mycroft was not letting go, sighed in surrender, "It's okay, I got it."

Mycroft looked at him for a moment and replied, "Not yet, but you will. I'm going to do everything I can to convince you of that. One day you will see yourself through my eyes and you will understand."

Greg, a little embarrassed, pulled the newspaper close to him, and turning to another crossword puzzle, he replied with a small smile, "Until you convince me, shall we fill it in together?"

Mycroft pulled his chair closer and said quietly, "How about we make it more enjoyable, like a kiss for every word found?"

Greg chuckled and replied, "So no winners or losers. That's fine with me. Let's go."

They began to fill in the crossword, each word rewarded with a kiss from the other. And if in the end Mycroft found more words than Greg, Greg didn't take offense. When it came to kissing the one he loved, he enjoyed receiving as much as he enjoyed giving.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Mystrade masterlist here

[aziraphales-library]

do you know any fics where Aziraphale justifies (either to himself or to other angels) his relationship/friendship/love with Crowley as "Loving everyone of God's creations" and especially "do you know of a being more in need of love than a demon?" or something along those lines?

Here are some fics in which Aziraphale does some mental gymnastics regarding his feelings for Crowley...

You were an Angel Once by cyankelpie (T)

In the photo, Crowley lounged across the corner of a park bench while Aziraphale sat on the other side, his mouth open in a laugh at something that Crowley had said. All the blood drained from Aziraphale’s face. “I-I can explain.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” said Michael sweetly. “I’m sure I already understand.”

With a great effort, Aziraphale tore his eyes from the photo and looked up at her.

“Truly admirable,” she continued, “to try saving the soul of a demon.”

(Aziraphale has two years to save Crowley's soul and convert him back into an angel. If he fails, he will be ordered to kill Crowley with holy water.)

One Night of Honesty by cyankelpie (T)

Crowley should not be in the bookshop right now. Heaven has stripped Aziraphale of the ability to lie, and he's gotten himself so drunk that he's completely incapable of holding back the truth. It's the perfect storm of circumstances for him to accidentally let slip something that he can never take back, and he would never forgive Crowley if he let that happen.

So why did Aziraphale start drinking in the first place, and why is he so adamant that Crowley stay?

Transference by iamtheenemy (M)

There was always a low level hum of attraction and lust in the air when Crowley was around. In fact, Aziraphale couldn’t recall a single time, after their first meeting on the wall, when he hadn’t watched Crowley dazzle and transfix every poor human that they encountered. He’d even seen Eve give him the eye when he was in his human form, back in the day, and she’d been with child at the time.

Aziraphale couldn’t blame them for falling victim to Crowley’s considerable wiles. He was a demon, after all. Tempting was in the job description. Plus, he’d clearly designed his human form to be utterly irresistible to all humans, from his eye-catching hair down to his stylish clothing. It was overkill, if you asked Aziraphale. But then, he supposed, overkill wasn’t really a thing with demons.

Aziraphale would win a gold medal in Mental Gymnastics.

Technicalities by curtaincall (M)

Aziraphale is always very careful with his wording. Crowley's never really been in a position to question it.

The Damned by LadyMango (M)

Demons were captured by angels during the Fall, and have been kept as servants ever since.

Aziraphale, feeling lonely, decides to purchase a demon. Naturally, he chooses the most frightened one.

parallax by leaveanote (E)

It’s just to ensure Crowley’s doing it correctly, Aziraphale tells himself at first. To make sure he’s getting the miracles right. But when Aziraphale hides and watches Crowley perform his first miracle since his fall, Aziraphale finds instead that Crowley--oh, he was made for this. The love that brims from him when he is allowed at last to heal, to help, to save. A demon shouldn’t love performing Heaven’s work like this, should he? What else, then, is a lie? (Don’t ask questions.) Aziraphale can’t stop watching, through the centuries. Presently, Crowley catches him, and many, many truths come to light.

- Mod D

[hugh-lauries-bald-spot]

i know hed never do this to us,,, i know this,,, but full disclosure im kinda worried theyll make crowley and aziraphale straight

[searchingforakeythatdoesntexist]

Your Time to Choose the upcoming Daily Challenge ! (19h00UTC)

The brand new Gymnast!AU Ineffable Wives?

OR

My dear Turtledove!Aziraphale, still waiting to spread his wings, for your eyes only?

Good Omens Gymnast!AU Prompt: Achievement complete!

But now I have 2 prompts ready to be posted (~19h00 UTC).

I have always been curious about how to do a poll here. Well, let us give a try! I am not expecting a lot of answers because we only have a few hours left before my usual posting time, but no pressure!

[gildalilli]

I see your "zira tenderly takes off crowley's glasses" fic trope and raise you "zira picks up crowley because his body is soft but his muscles are strong." why does that awaken Yearning in me??? Every time??? MY heart starts burning with the strength of a thousand suns. There's something about like... the sunshine one taking the grumpy one in their arms. The arguably 'fem' one of the pair being the brawn. Zira's body was built for fighting as heaven's soldier but this is what he uses his strength for???? showing love to his husband??? im gonna CRY

[be-kind-to-each-otter]

Aziraphale’s Anxieties

Text: Best not to speculate. It’s all part of the Great Plan. It’s not for us to understand. It’s ineffable. ☼ I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing. ☼ I can’t disod – not do what I’m told. ’M an angel. I… ☼ Ah, but evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction. ☼ Then they give weight to a moral argument. I think. ☼ You can’t judge the Almighty, Crawley. God’s plans are… ☼ I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley. ☼ But there doesn’t have to be another war, does there? ☼

I read every single Aziraphale quote from the Script Book and ended up choosing a few lines that highlighted his anxieties and mental gymnastics. I had a much larger list of quotes that went into detail, but ended up having to pare back how many words so that a reader had enough snippets to piece together the partially visible quotes.

UPDATE: new companion piece Crowley’s Anxieties

[seonghwasriceball]

Trashboat Supreme

Kang Minhee: Second-year university student at Hanlim National University, studying Biology with a focus on Botany. Has known Hyeongjun since he was eight, and they've been best friends ever since. When Hyeongjun introduced him to Junho in high school, he thought he would be stuck up at first, but he turned out to be alright. He is an agent of chaos in Eunsang's life, but he only does that to get a rise out of him.

Song Hyeongjun: Second-year university student at Hanlim National University, studying Sports Coaching with a focus on Dance coaching. He knows Jisung from class but not well enough to claim friendship. Met Junho in high school when they were paired up to create a gymnastics routine in P.E. in first year, and they just clicked, so Hyeongjun promptly dragged Junho to meet his introverted best friend, Minhee. Hyeongjun, an extrovert, likes to collect introverts and decided to work on the aforementioned Jisung next. The second agent of chaos in Eunsang's life.

Cha Junho: Second-year university student at Hanlim National University, studying Music Composition and Ethnomusicology. Is very talented and bright-minded in his field. Not so much in many other aspects of life. His friends all love to get his question of the day, which have included some gems such as "How do they get the mashed potatoes inside such a small casing to make fries?" and "Are ducks and chickens, you know,... cousins?" He is smart enough to be left alone, but the boys all love him so much that they don't want to do that.

Son Dongpyo: Second-year university student at Hanlim National University, studying History and Classics. Initially took the Classics course because he thought that it was a good idea to meet girls. Halfway through his first year of university, he fell in love with the subject and realised he liked men. Classic. When in trouble, he asks himself what Aphrodite would do, then remembers she would sleep with another man while her husband was at work, so he asks what Hera, the Girlboss of Girlbosses, would do, and somehow it always works out for him. An unbridled hatred for Medieval History, yet somehow is still doing it.

Lee Eunsang: The unofficial leader of the group. Second-year university student at Hanlim National University, studying Music in Theory and Practice and Secondary Education, so it makes sense that he's the one who's always being responsible. Minhee claims his dumbassery is an attempt to prepare him for teaching teenagers; Hyeongjun says they just like to cause chaos. Guess which one Eunsang believes more. He loves the guys, really. It's just that sometimes he needs a break. Truly deserves an all-expenses-paid vacation somewhere relaxing and, most importantly, away from Minhee and Hyeongjun.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Ineffable - a social media au by celestaeyoung

Introduction: Trashboat Supreme

Y/n's Harem | Masterlist | Private Twitters

[americanoddity]

Planetary Orphic Hymns

Manifestation order: Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sun, Venus, Mercury, Moon

Please only use these Hymns if you’re ready. Jupiter is incredibly expansive, Mars incredibly defensive, etc. All planets need to be worked with before ever thinking about prayer to Saturn, and when Saturn is worked with, you need to keep Solar influences heavy. 

*astrological conditions matter

Formal wear

Storax, basil, frankincense

Hymn to Jupiter

O Jove much-honored, Jove supremely great,

To thee our holy rites we consecrate,

Our prayers and expiations, king divine,

For all things round thy head exalted shine.

The earth is thine, and mountains swelling high,

The sea profound, and all within the sky.

Saturnian king, descending from above,

Magnanimous, commanding, sceptred Jove;

All-parent, principle and end of all,

Whose power almighty, shakes this earthly ball;

Even Nature trembles at thy mighty nod,

Loud-sounding, armed with lightning, thundering God.

Source of abundance, purifying king,

O various-formed from whom all natures spring;

Propitious hear my prayer, give blameless health,

With peace divine, and necessary wealth.

Any attire

Frankincense, cinnamon, dragon’s blood

Hymn to Mars

Magnanimous, unconquered, boisterous Mars,

In darts rejoicing, and in bloody wars

Fierce and untamed, whose mighty power can make

The strongest walls from their foundations shake:

Mortal destroying king, defiled with gore,

Pleased with war’s dreadful and tumultuous roar:

Thee, human blood, and swords, and spears delight,

And the fire ruin of mad savage fight.

Stay, furious contests, and vending strife,

Whose works with woe, embitter human life;

To lovely Venus, and to Bacchus yield,

To Ceres give the weapons of the field;

Encourage peace, to gentle works inclined,

And give abundance, with benignant mind.

Clean, nice clothing with a sense of modesty

Frankincense

Hymn to the Sun

Hear, golden Titan, whose eternal eye

With broad survey, illumines all the sky.

Self-born, unwearied in diffusing light,

And to all eyes the mirror of delight:

Lord of the seasons, with thy fiery car

And leaping courses, beaming light from far:

With thy right hand the source of morning light,

And with the left the father of the night.

Agile and vigorous, venerable Sun,

Fiery and bright around the heavens you run.

Foe to the wicked but the good man’s guide,

Over all his steps propitious you preside:

With various founding, golden lyre, ’tis mine

To fill the world with harmony divine.

Father of ages, guide of prosperous deeds,

The world’s commander, borne by lucid steeds,

Immortal Jove, all-searching, bearing light,

Source of existence, pure and fiery bright

Bearer of fruit, almighty lord of years,

Agile and warm, whom every power reveres.

Great eye of Nature and the starry skies,

Doomed with immortal flames to set and rise

Dispensing justice, lover of the stream.

The world’s great despot, and over all supreme.

Faithful defender, and eye of right,

Of steeds the ruler, and of life the light:

With founding whip four fiery steeds you guide,

When in the car of day you glorious ride.

Propitious on these mystic labors shine,

And bless thy supplicants with a life divine.

Something that makes you feel good about yourself

Frankincense, rose, honeysuckle, sandalwood

Hymn to Venus

Heavenly, illustrious, laughter-loving queen,

Sea-born, night-loving, of an awful mien;

Craft, from whom necessity first came,

Producing, nightly, all-connecting dame:

Tis thine the world with harmony to join,

For all things spring from thee, O power divine.

The triple Fates are ruled by thy decree,

And all productions yield alike to thee:

Whatever the heavens, encircling all contain,

Earth fruit-producing, and the stormy main,

Thy sway confesses, and obeys thy nod,

Awful attendant of the brumal God:

Goddess of marriage, charming to the sight,

Mother of Loves, whom banquetings delight;

Source of persuasion, secret, favoring queen,

Illustrious born, apparent and unseen:

Spousal, lupercal, and to men inclined

Prolific, most-desired, life-giving, kind:

great scepter-bearer of the Gods, tis thine,

Mortals in necessary bands to join;

And every tribe of savage monsters dire

In magic chains to bind, through mad desire.

Come, Cyprus-born, and to my prayer incline,

Whether exalted in the heavens you shine,

Or pleased in Syrias temple to preside,

Or over the Egyptian plains thy car to guide,

Fashioned of gold; and near its sacred flood,

Fertile and famed to fix thy blest abode;

Or if rejoicing in the azure shores,

Near where the sea with foaming billows roars,

The circling choirs of mortals, thy delight,

Or Beauteous nymphs, with eyes cerulean bright,

Pleased by the dusty banks renowned of gold;

Or if in Cyprus with thy mother fair,

Where married females praise thee every years,

And beauteous virgins in the chorus join,

Adonis pure to sing and thee divine;

Come, all-attractive to my prayer inclined,

For thee, I call, with holy, reverent mind.

Scholarly or what you work in

Frankincense, rose, honeysuckle, sandalwood

Hymn to Mercury

Hermes, draw near, and to my prayer incline,

Angel of Jove, and Maia’s son divine;

Studious of contests, ruler of mankind,

With heart almighty, and a prudent mind.

Celestial messenger, of various skill,

Whose powerful arts could watchful Argus kill:

With winged feet, tis thine thro air to course,

O friend of man, and prophet of discourse:

Great life-supporter, to rejoice is thine,

In arts gymnastic, and in fraud divine:

With power endued all language to explain,

Of care the loosener, and the source of gain.

Whose hand contains of blameless peace the rod,

Corucian, blessed, profitable God;

Of various speech, whose aid in works we find,

And in necessities to mortals kind:

Dire weapon of the tongue, which men revere,

Be present, Hermes, and thy suppliant hear;

Assist my works, conclude my life with peace,

Give graceful speech, and my memory’s increase.

Something comfortable, flowing that isn’t constricting

Jasmine, lavender, willow, copal, opium

Hymn to the Moon

Hear, Goddess queen, diffusing silver light,

Bull-horned and wandering thro the gloom of Night.

With stars surrounded, and with circuit wide

Night torch extending, thro the heavens you ride:

Female and Male with borrowed rays you shine,

And now full-orbed, now tending to decline.

Mother of ages, fruit-producing Moon,

Whose amber orb makes Nights reflected noon:

Lover of horses, splendid, queen of Night,

All-seeing power bedecked with starry light.

Lover of vigilance, the foe of strife,

In peace rejoicing, and a prudent life:

Fair lamp of night, its ornament and friend,

Who gives to Natures works their destined end.

Queen of the stars, all-wife Diana hail!

Decked with a graceful robe and shining veil;

Come, blessed Goddess, prudent, starry, bright,

Come moony-lamp with chaste and splendid light,

Shine on these sacred rites with prosperous rays,

And pleased accept thy suppliants mystic praise.

Solemn, black or grey clothes, on the formal side of things

Myrrh, poppy seed

Hymn to Saturn

Ethereal father, mighty Titan, hear

Great fire of Gods and men, whom all revere:

Endowed with various council, pure and strong,

To whom perfection and decrease belong.

Consumed by thee all forms that hourly die,

By thee restored, their former place supply;

The world immense in everlasting chains,

Strong and ineffable thy power contains

Father of vast eternity, divine,

O might Saturn, various speech is thine:

Blossom of earth and of the starry skies,

Husband of Rhea, and Prometheus wife.

Obstetric Nature, venerable root,

From which the various forms of being shoot;

No parts peculiar can thy power enclose,

Diffused thro’ all, from which the world arise,

O, best of beings, of a subtle mind,

Propitious hear to holy prayers inclined;

The sacred rites benevolent attend,

And grant a blameless life, a blessed end.

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker High School AU Pt. 7 (1...6)

tw: general Howard Stark warning

----

So, here’s the thing.

Peter meant to ask May about the letter the night he got it back from Tony, He really did. But then everyone was in such a good mood, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter that to satisfy his own curiosity.

So then he meant to ask the next day.

And he tries, he really does.

But the letter feels as heavy as an anvil in his desk drawer and Peter is too nervous to ask about it. Something always comes up or he gets too scared to shatter the image of the good, obedient nephew he is, one who doesn’t go rifling through mail not addressed to him, prying into personal business.

So he flusters and stumbles pretty badly for the first couple attempts. He changes topic quickly, pretending like he was going to ask about something else, asking himself where exactly his business ends and where his curiosity begins.

Once during a gymnastics comp he stopped mid routine to check on a rival who had fallen from the rings and injured themselves. His coach asked when he was going to stop being a goddamn martyr.

He shakes the Magic 8-Ball on Monday morning and asks the universe if it’s an appropriate time to approach May.

Reply hazy, try again.

Well, that’s not what his flagging courage had hoped for. He shakes it again.

Ask again later.

One more time, harder.

Better not tell you now.

“What the hell,” he whispers, placing it haphazardly upon where he took it. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s with the potty mouth,” May asks suddenly from behind him. He turns as she’s affixing some dangling earrings to her ears. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just - do you have a minute?”

She checks her watch. “I have about forty seconds. Is something wrong - are you okay?”

“No - I mean yes, I’m okay. Are...are you?”

“Top of the world, bubby,” she scoops her keys from the bowl, approaching him with a curious expression. “Why do you ask?”

There’s no easy way to ask without blatantly admitting to going through her things, and the last thing he wants her to think is that she can’t trust him.

“I just mean. If you weren’t. If there was something wrong, you would tell me, right?”

“Of course,” her face falls. “You’re acting strange, Pete.”

“I just worry, that’s all.”

You’re all I have left, is what loops over and over in his mind, but doesn’t say. She seems to hear it anyway, rushing forward and kissing his forehead, her perfume filling his nose.

“Everything is fine, bubs. The second it isn’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta go, but stop worrying okay? That’s my job. You have a good day.”

She hurries to scoop up her handbag and closes the door before he’s broken out of his thoughts long enough to reply. He sighs and shakes the stupid ball again before he leaves as well.

Cannot predict now.

Of course.

Just for once he’d like fate to be firmly on his side.

---

Something smells weird.

It’s sharp, chemical and not entirely unpleasant. Noticeable, however, sharp enough to cut through the usual musty smell of the library. It’s like apple cider, but overpowers the usual library smell of old books and dust and pencil shavings, a scent Peter has long associated with study, solitude, and the easing of his anxious heart from a gallop to a steady stride.

It’s not a bad smell, just misplaced.

And Tony’s been acting strange all study period. Like, weirder than normal - and his resting state of normal is already ineffably frenetic and bewildering, so this was an entirely different carton of eggs.

Peter doesn’t exactly want to bring it up, they’re kind of on a tenuously peaceful truce, a silent lay down of arms, so to speak.

Well, as peaceful as a truce can be while they call each other all sorts of names and rib each other over literally any sign of weakness, but still. They have some sort of an understanding now, and it’s all relatively innocent, good natured banter.

Mostly.

Peter for sure could have done without being called fuck-face-mcgee upon entering the library, but he’s willing to let it pass. He was late, after all.

“Anyway,” Peter says, sitting across the table from Tony, “so I think if we removed the monthly gym membership, we’d have an extra sixty per month that could go towards other stuff.”

“Like what?” Tony’s face pinches.

“I don’t know, like a college fund?”

“Ridiculous idea. I need that membership,” Tony rebukes, shrugging his leather jacket off, hooking it over the back of the chair. “When else am I supposed to get a reprieve from you and the cabbage patch?”

“When do I get a reprieve? I’m the money-maker. When do I get my break from work and childcare?”

“At work. What are you, like an art teacher or something? Your whole day is like a rich, white woman's vacation. Parents don’t get a lunch break.”

“Right. I’m sure watching Dora and burping an infant is as hard as teaching a class of thirty.”

“Wow. So dismissive. I mean, if you were a good spouse, you would give your withered and weary husband a break from screaming babies and shitty diapers.”

“Mhmm. That would mean I’d have to do something nice for you, and that doesn’t sound like me.”

Tony shakes his head. “We’re getting a divorce as soon as Molly is old enough to pick me as the superior parent,” he points to Peter’s papers. “Put that in the notes.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, willing himself not to lean over the table and smack the other boy.

“You are not the superior parent. You’re the deadbeat that forgets to pick her up from school and day drinks.”

“And yet, she loves me the most. You’re just the breadwinner who comes home grumpy every evening. I’m the cool dad.”

“Fine, keep your druglord baby. I never wanted kids anyway.”

“Fine. I’m keeping the car.”

“I’m keeping the apartment.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They snicker quietly in a rare moment of camaraderie before a lightbulb goes off in Peter's head.

“What if we used the membership, but cut costs elsewhere, like, cutting our own hair and stuff. We could save for a yearly holiday, go to the beach or something.”

“Florida! Disney, roadtrip, yes,” Tony clicks his fingers towards Peter, smiling wide. “Look at you getting all savvy. Call the judge, the marriage is back on.”

“You can’t go to Disney for a few hundred dollars, dumbass, that’s barely the price of admission,” Peter scribbles on his pad, making note of their ideas. “You ever been?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not even once.”

“That’s surprising. Isn’t that where all rich white people take their baby sociopaths to beat up their first mascot?”

“One, I was never a baby, I emerged fully grown, and two, could you imagine Howard Stark within a mile of the happiest place on earth? He’d have a fucking stroke,” his face changes like he’s had an epiphany. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

Peter doesn’t mention that he doesn’t personally know Howard Stark but is willing to take Tony’s assessment at face value. That being said, he can’t imagine Tony, now, voluntarily heading to Disney without coercion or the promise of copious quantities of alcohol. He’d probably smoke and cuss and scare away small children.

He mind lingers on that particular characterisation, and for a moment tries to picture what Tony looked like as a kid, if he was a chubby, toothless little brat, can’t help then imagining him with Mickey Mouse ears, gleefully running through his gigantic home, harried caretakers running after him.

He must have been the worst.

“I’ve never been further than Washington,” Peter offers, “but that was for AcDec, so it wasn’t like we got to see much.”

“You did Academic Decathlon?”

“Yep.”

“Ew, why would you do that to yourself.”

“I still do it. It looks good on college applications and it’s fun,” he shrugs. “I like it. I’m good at it.”

Tony’s hands cover his mouth, but it doesn’t stifle the rising apple of his cheeks or the mirth in his voice.

“I’m feeling so much second-hand embarrassment for you right now.”

“Shut up,” Peter huffs, kicking him under the table, satisfied when the other boy winces. He fails to smother his own wince when he gets a kick in return, right in the kneecap. “Nothing wrong with being an intellectual.”

“You’re a fucking nerd, four-eyes.”

“What about you?” Peter rolls his eyes, keen to change the subject. “Been outside New York?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his pen on the pad, looking anywhere but at him. “When I was younger I’d sometimes go on my dad's business trips to Europe or Japan or whatever. And we have a house in Malibu.”

“That sounds awesome.”

Tony snorts. He shuffles on his seat, sliding their notes over and making further amendments in quick strokes, the cheap pen spurting bright red ink over the paper like arterial spray.

“Oh yeah, it was a real blast.”

Spoiled brat.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?”

“With my family?” Tony looks up. “No, I’d rather stick my head up a turkey’s ass. You?”

Without warning, Peter’s hand flies to cover his mouth, unable to  but snort at the imagery, He’s not sure if Tony just doesn’t get along with his family or if he’s still stuck in that churlish, ‘too cool to be around my parents’ stage of adolescence. It’s one the idiosyncrasies that would have annoyed Peter before, his ungratefulness of having a family that’s still alive would be just another thing for Peter to hate him for.

Now, he thinks, he’s beginning to parse out when Tony’s being sincere and when he’s  hyperbolic, finally recognising the latter as a mechanism to throw someone off a topic that makes Tony uncomfortable. He sees it - the warning lights and stop signs in barbed coding, wrapped up in dry wit and sarcasm.

Peter is like that sometimes, too.

And what the hell would Peter know about having a normal family.

“Yeah, actually, for once,” he says softly. “My aunt - not May - and uncle have a holiday home up north, so we’re staying with them over the long weekend.”

“S’cool. May’s family?”

Peter shakes his head. “Sort of - they’re not actually related, but May and Margaret have been best friends since college, so.”

“Is Margaret a babe, too?”

Peter throw a chewed-up pencil at him that he catches easily.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not,” he throws the pencil back, overshooting and hitting the shelves behind them. “What are we talking, on a scale of haggard to hottie.”

“I don’t know, man. You seem to have questionable taste in the people you are attracted to.”

Tony grins crookedly, eyes shining with something Peter can’t decipher. “Ain't that the truth.”

“What’s the supposed to --” he stops himself, suddenly recognising what the strange scent was that he’d been picking up. “Wait - dude, are you wearing cologne?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he responds. “No,” he denies, just as the bell rings. “Oh, look at that, time to get to class.”

Saved by the bell.

“So, this is it,” Tony nods, shutting the lid of his laptop as the bell signals the end of their free period. “We’re done. The assignment. That’s the last of it, right?”

Dazedly, he watches Tony stuffing his laptop and notes into his backpack, brow creasing as his mind catches up.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“Send me your notes tonight, I’ll stitch them together with mine and send them back.”

“Okay,” he sluggishly collects his own notes, picking up the bag by his feet. “That’s - that’s good.”

“Well, Parker,” Tony slings his backpack on his shoulder, shuffling backwards, “we didn’t kill each other. I mean, not for a lack of wanting on my behalf.”

‘’Yeah, from Wednesday we’re free. We can go back to normal.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s grin fades. They stare at each other for a long moment that could have been seconds or hours, he doesn’t know, until the second bell rings.

“Hey, um --”

“I’ll send you the notes later,” Tony interrupts, sotto voce. “I gotta get to class. See you around.”

Something in his stomach deflates, sadly and slowly, like a balloon with a pinprick, emptying itself until it’s an uncomfortably hard to digest crumpled mass at the base of his stomach. He pastes on a smile and looks out the window, hoping the feeling doesn’t show in his eyes.

That’s when he notices the leather jacket Tony has left behind, still slung over the back of the chair.

“You left your…” he trails off, turning back, but Tony is already long gone, probably already halfway to his next class. Like a bat out of hell, Peter thinks wryly, picking up the jacket, the leather smooth like butter under his touch, still warm around the collar where Tony’s had been leaning against it.

No good leaving it here to get stolen or be tossed into lost property. He decides to take it with him, folding it gently over his arm. He’ll give it back when he sees him again, maybe after school.

“Nice jacket, Parker,” Flash says approvingly when Peter bumps into him out in the hall.

At first he thinks he’s referring to Peter’s ratty hoodie, and it confounds him for a moment because it’s decidedly not nice, but then he realizes he’s referring to the leather in his arms.

“It’s not mine,” he replies a little too late, because Flash is already down the hall, out of earshot.

Peter sighs. It’s beginning to become a depressing theme.

---

The weird feeling in his chest doesn’t subside all afternoon, and into the evening Peter is starting to think maybe he just has indigestion, like acid reflux or something. Must be the chilli surprise from lunch. Maybe he’d missed his meds.

He sends his portion of the final notes to Tony’s email, turns off his computer and switches on Colbert.

---

It’s not until hours later, well after midnight and the infomercials are playing, only then does his phone buzz against his thigh with a response.

Figures that Tony would be a night owl like him.

> soz was distracted > youtube spiral

Peter shifts downwards on the bed, holding the phone over his face. < s’ok  < what were you watching  > say yes to the dress  < lmao really > lol no > anyway, looks good. ur notes > will print off for u to sign tomorrow < is that a compliment or an admission u were wrong about me 

> neither. One subject does not a genius make  > unlike me, an actual genius

In your dreams, dipshit, he wants to type, but doesn’t, not really keen to provoke a muddy discussion on who is the smartest (it’s definitely Peter).

< u left ur jacket in the library btw, I have it, he texts instead, his pulse jumping when Tony replies with crying emoji’s.

Tony sends him a snap, unexpectedly, a sad face that makes Peter snort. His face seems distressed, the caption reads, thought i lost it for good.

Shifting down further on the bed, he’s feeling suddenly and inexplicably courageous, fire burning up from his belly button to his fingers.

Peter takes a silly photo of himself and sends it back. > didn’t want it to get stolen < aw u care

“I do not,” he whispers to himself.  > i do not. come collect it after school tomorrow or im throwing it out. < u wouldn’t do that to me > there’s a lot of things i would do 2 u  > ....  > um  > lol 

 Peter’s face flames at the implication. He reads over what he just so carelessly typed, stomach positively knotted with embarrassment. Oh god, that is not what he meant. His fingers fly over the screen at record speed as he types out a response. < NOT LIKE THAT < I MEANT IT IN A THREATENING WAY < I’M LITERALLY GAGGING > yikes > ur dirty talk needs work < no it DOESN’T bc we’re not sexting > sure jan > damn. didn’t kno u had it in u bubs < i don’t have it in me > not yet > ;)

Despite the deep blush still heating his face and his heart galloping in his chest, a laugh breaks out of him. The phone in his hand vibrates again. > jk jk, not ever > need to bleach my brain now 

Slowly gliding back to earth he types out a response. < ikr me too < ugh.

He puts his phone down on the bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling, amusement slowly fading. His pulse though, that doesn’t return to normal.

How could it when his mind suddenly runs away from him, evoking short-lived, but nonetheless strikingly vivid images of intertwined legs, planes of pale skin, and lush lips. How can the heat in his stomach escape when his thoughts conjure phantom sensations of a soft mouth sucking on his neck, the punishing grip of hands on his hips and the warmth and weight of another body on top of his own.

A forehead leaning against his, brown eyes that knocked his pulse off kilter.

The taste of nicotine.

Stop it.

That is dangerous territory right there. And a line he doesn’t want to cross.

Shaking his head, Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, looking anywhere for a distraction; his window, the posters on his wall, his figurines on his shelves, anything to douse the low-burning fire in his gut.

Standing, he heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, banging their crappy old heater with his fist to get it working again.

He takes a very cold shower.

----

It’s not that Peter doesn’t enjoy sex.

Not that he’s had it.

But he enjoys jerking off, at least. Like a regular amount, whatever that is for a teenage boy. He likes kissing. Likes thinking about one day being in a real relationship and exploring someone's body and he likes exploring what turns him on and what he doesn’t.

It’s just that he doesn’t let himself think of anyone he knows personally that way, no matter how conventionally attractive they are - not Thor, and especially not him.

Typically, his fantasies are people with vague features, sometimes with bodies like those he has seen in porn, all shapes and sizes. And that’s safe for him.

He doesn’t want to have to look anyone he knows in the eye and wonder what their lips would feel like pressed against his own. If they’re any good at kissing. If they’re the type to take control or cede it.

He does wonder, sometimes though. No matter how much he denies what or who he wants.

Because it doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a thing. Want is never superficial in his experience, it doesn’t feel good most of the time. It’s deep and sometimes dark, it sinks itself into him with its hooks and it tugs, and keeps tugging. It yields to craving and yearning.

Back in his bedroom, his eyes land on his wall-mounted mirror. It’s small. Like the Mona Lisa. Small enough that he doesn’t have to see his whole reflection if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to crave and yearn for anybody, because he knows it will always be one sided. He’s well aware that he isn’t exactly centrefold material.

Who is gonna look at his weird ears or thin lips, and think, shit, that’s the guy of my dreams. Not with his big glasses or the way his hair twists itself into frizzy, unruly curls once the gel wears off and he starts looking like an unkempt labradoodle.

Who would want to wake up next to him? No one.

So it’s better not to risk imagining anyone real. It’s only in his head that anyone could ever want him back.

His eyes go from the mirror to the jacket folded and placed on his desk. It was intended to be plain sight so he remembers to bring it in - out of sight, out of mind, is what Ben would say. He can still smell the cologne Tony denied wearing earlier.

Once he’s in bed, he turns to face the wall.

Out of sight, out of mind.

---

Maybe Tony subscribes to that mantra as well.

Peter forgets to bring the jacket in all week and Tony doesn’t ask.

---

Danvers wants him fit and ready to be harpooned into the mud by next week; that’s why she looks the other way when Thor and Peter take their informal training in the boundaries of the field, stretching out on the grass as the JV team runs their usual morning drills - drills Peter would have been a part of before his stupid injury and his stupid wrist-brace.

This school is stupid too. Now he has to pay to see a doctor so he can get medically cleared for a sport he doesn’t really care that much about.

Like he didn’t have enough medical bills to deal with.

In any case, he’s not really in a position to complain, because he has the opportunity now to run through his warm-up with Thor, who is taking his direction to spread his legs into a butterfly position so beautifully, even as his knees raise from the ground to make a v-shape, whereas Peter’s lie flat on the grass.

If the last few days had been different, he might have blushed and used the situation at hand as an opening to place his hands on Thor’s knees and applied pressure. But now he just smiles encouragingly and reminds himself that he has no chance - no place - and his hands do not belong anywhere but his own body.

And surprisingly enough, he’s okay about it all.

Thor was a good guy. Peter will never say no to having more friends.

It’s a dreadful, bitter morning. Icy cold, wind biting into his shirt, the grass below them is damp. He has to keep rubbing his hands together so he can restore feeling in his fingers.

To make things worse, Tony is back on the bleachers. White v-neck, jeans and dark sunglasses. Sprawled out over a set of steps, legs askew, arms behind his head, unmoving as if he were napping or sunbathing, appearing like a cocky main out of an eighties movie.

Or a king surveying his kingdom.

Rhodes and Potts slouch on either side of him, swapping phones over his idle figure, taking pictures and laughing amongst themselves.

“It burns,” Thor says lightly, hands on his thighs in an attempt to aim his knees to touch the ground.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, despite the ease in which he can lean in. “It just takes practice, dude. Twenty minutes a day, warm up and don’t over-do it. You’ll be limber in no time.”

“You can do this better than I can,” Thor argues, accent thick as he tries to lie flat like Peter.

“And you can lift a hundred pounds better than I can,” he tries to rebut, even as they switch positions, hip flexors aching with old injuries.

While the stretches are like second nature, he doesn’t miss the pressure of training for competition. The eagerness to get into a flat butterfly or oversplit. There was no argument that he spent nights on crunches back then, and he was somewhat toned - but he was shit at weight training. He hated lifting. Reps were more boring, more tedious and difficult and the diet required to give them any value was frankly not worth giving up a great hotdog or a loaded sub from Delmars. He wouldn’t go back to it now.

None of that old heat is there when he inspects Thor’s form. That quick simmer, the call to be closer. That terrible thing, want. All but gone. awe is still there, as he suspects it always would be with someone as outstanding as Thor, but the butterflies have very much flown away.

As he suspected would be the case. He has someone and they’re happy. With the cat out of the bag Thor had shown Peter pictures of his boyfriend all morning. He’d gotten a puppy, apparently, which just tickled Thor. He was so happy it was almost sickening.

When is it gonna be him that sickens someone with photo’s of his partner?

“Hey, Parker,” Tony yells from the stands, “you suck!”

Looking over, the idiot is raised on his elbows and grinning, like he’s proud of himself for a spectacularly unoriginal insult.

Rolling his eyes, Peter gives him the finger and he gets one in return.

His stomach twists and he has to duck his head to conceal his smile.

“Your husband is somewhat rude,” Thor says, following Peter’s example and switching from a pike to a lunge.

Peter looks back over to the stands. A cigarette now dangles between Tony’s full lips, sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose.

That’s how Peter knows he’s looking at him too.

Even from afar his eyes are round and mirthful, framed with ridiculously long lashes like a cartoon mouse, far too outlandish for any real person to have.

“He’s the absolute worst,” Peter bites his bottom lip, quickly averting his gaze. “It was an arranged marriage, to be fair.”

---

Wednesday comes and goes.

Their assignment gets handed in, Peter signs it off to say he did his fair portion of the work and Miss Ahn beams at the both of them when she is handed the thick binder, looking all too pleased with herself.

They have a presentation of their work next week, after Thanksgiving, each pair expected to give five minutes of their life pretending that they’re passionate about schoolwork in front of their fellow students who don’t care.

After that they are completely unburdened. No study sessions, no car rides, and no fries dipped in milkshakes.

They’re embarrassingly hailed as a prime example of people working through their differences, as if they had come together and were now friends or something.

From the front row Tony sneaks a furtive glance at Peter when she applauds them to the class.

“See, kids,” she says, “it wasn’t so bad working together, was it?”

Their eyes meet briefly.

“Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Tony declares, brash and loud, kicking his combat boots onto his desk in a leisurely display.. “That guy is the human equivalent of watching paint dry. Awful.”

“Oh, come on,” she chides. “Be nice.”

Not one to be outdone, Peter lets his horse out of the gate too.

“Singular worst experience of my life. I once had a root canal without anaesthetic and it was less painful than working with him.”

“Alright, boys, that’s enough out of you,” Miss Ahn sighs deeply, walking to the front of the room. “Mr Lang, how did you find the assignment?”

“Very informative…”

From the front row Tony turns in his seat and winks at him.

----

“Thanksgiving plans?” Natasha asks, leaning beside his locker, smothering a smile as he struggles to get his locker open for the nth time that day with one functional hand.

“Visiting my Aunt and Uncle,” he says, finally prying the damn thing open. “They’ve got a place up at Otisco Lake, so. Probably watching old movies and swimming all weekend.”

“Oof,” his friend winces. “That’s a trip. Think the May-Mobile will make the distance?”

The May-Mobile of course to the ancient, ‘89 Volvo 240 that May has been driving ever since Peter was born. She adores it and refuses to trade in, despite the fact that it rarely gets driven, practically haemorrhages gas, and has cost more in repairs in the last five years than the actual value of the car. But May really loves it. It's sentimental. She says it was the car Ben and her picked out together.

“It better make it,” he dumps his books in, closing the locker. “I don’t want to spend the weekend waiting for AAA in the middle of nowhere. What’s your plans?”

She shrugs, walking with him down the hall.

“Probably go and annoy Yelena. Was supposed to spend it with Bucky and his mom, but that ain't happening.”

He bumps her shoulder sympathetically. “Do you think you two will get back together?”

“Probably. But he’s got a shitload of grovelling to do first.”

“Don’t maim him, please. We need him on the team.”

“No promises.”

“Speak of the devil,” Peter adjusts his glasses, spotting Bucky at the base of the stairs talking to somebody. He gets startled, heart jumping when Natasha grabs him by the waist, pushing him towards the wall and inching them closer to the stairs.

“What are you --”

“ -- Shh, I want to listen. Who is he talking to?”

Craning his head, he finds himself in for another surprise when he sees that the other person he’s talking to is --

“He’s… he’s talking to Stark - what...?”

She shushes him again and Peter listens, curious now too.

“... what do you want, Barnes?” Tony visibly grimaces, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tucking it behind his ear. “Make it quick. I got places to be and your noxious stench gives me headaches.”

An announcement goes off over the loudspeaker over their head, calling for Brendon Bennett, a dick of a senior, to move his car from where he has blocked a teacher from leaving. It would be funny at any other time, but as it goes, he misses a chunk of their conversation.

“...Rogers isn’t the boss of me.”

“Yes, he is, and I’m not getting suspended again because you’re a pussy and he has roid-rage.”

“I just need an ETA. C’mon, pal, I really need this.”

“I’m not your pal and I don’t give a flying fuck what you need.”

Ever the easy going guy, Bucky puts his hands up placatingly as a group of students file down the stairs, causing enough noise that Peter misses whatever is said next. As he strains to hear he tries to draw the line between the dots, but comes up short on exactly how these two are connected.

“That fucker,” Natasha mutters near his ear.

By the time the students clear, Tony’s descended the stairs and begun to walk away

“I have better things to do than to sit around and wait for you,” Bucky calls out, giving him the finger.”

“And yet you will.”

Not in any possible lifetime was Peter going to address that he was weirdly relieved that Tony didn’t flip him off in return, some part of him petulantly thinking that’s our thing, but that’s wrong - Peter and Tony are not friends and they do not have things, even when they do, it’s not like a thing thing.

Nat grips his hand and pulls him along when Bucky leaves as well, swiftly walking away to avoid being caught. His backpack jostles at the speed and he realizes he’s still clutching Tony's jacket from where he had retrieved it from his locker.

“What was that about?” He asks, struggling to keep up with his friend's furious pace as he’s led down the hall. “Tash?”

She drops his hand once they are outside, her disapproval near palpable, voice laden with fire and fury.

“That’s Bucky being a world class idiot, he’s gonna get himself expelled, I swear.”

Peter stops on the spot.

“Expelled?”

Something dark curls unpleasantly in his gut, heavy and not leaving.

“They have a thing,” she explains hotly, mouth turning down. “Bucky and Stark.”

“What?” Peter breathes, uncomfortably thinking back to the party and the way Bucky overtly complimented Tony’s body. “Like a.... like a sex thing? Did he cheat on you?”

“What? No.”

“Then what?”

Red strands whipping in the wind, his friend looks around to see if there is anyone nearby before leaning in to speak low. He leans in too, unabashedly curious.

“Do you remember when Bucky was having issues with his parents when school started?”

He nods, thinking back to the times Bucky slept over in the late days of summer and early weeks of the school year, once or twice a week to get away from the shouting in his own home.

Natasha continues.

“Don’t tell him I told you this, but he got really depressed and fell behind with his work and everything he was handing in was terrible. Danvers pulled him up and said if he didn’t get his grades up, he’d be risking his spot on the team. So Bucky paid Stark to write up a few assignments for him, apparently he was doing it for a few kids, like it was a thing.”

...Okay.

That was not good, and definitely disappointing, but -

“Rogers found out. He gave Bucky a warning, but with Stark he threatened to go to Fury.”

Peter thinks back to the fight between their captain and Stark and their fight not long ago. “That’s why they…”

“I’m told Stark snapped, but I don’t know. I found out about the whole paper thing after that and me and Buck fought about it. I just got so mad - he’s - he’s not stupid, you know?”

“I know.”

She exhales heavily through her nose. “He’s going to get himself kicked out of school and I’m so -- I could kill him. We’re supposed to graduate together and get away from our families and go to college, and then he does this.”

“I’m sorry, Tash, I didn’t know,” he hugs her, her body going stiff before relaxing in his hold. “That’s shitty. For both of you.”

“I’m sorry for thinking you were in on the loop.”

He smiles, self-deprecating.

“Nope, I’m as clueless as ever.”

“No, you’re just too good for that,” she shakes her head. “Look, I gotta go and blow off some steam. Please don’t tell anybody about all this.”

“I won't, I swear - but text me later, alright? Let me know you’re okay.”

She ruffles his hair before stepping back.

“You’re a bleeding heart, PP. Keep an eye on that, will you?”

Hearing a squeal of tyres, he whips his head around to the parking lot, the source of the noise. The Firebird squeals out of the lot and onto the road, the sound as angry, the glimpse Peter gets of Tony’s face, even angrier.

He turns back to Nat, but she’s already walked away. Which means she isn’t there to hear him mutter to himself.

“What are you getting into, Tony?”

----

His thumbs hover over his phone that night, as he writes i saw u with barnes today.

He quickly deletes that, not wanting Tony to think that he was following him or spying on him - or worse, thinking that Peter actually cares about what he does. He doesn’t. They’re not friends.

A dread settles in the spaces between his ribs, like thread trying to squeeze them together too tight, his lungs feeling compressed. Maybe it’s his asthma, or allergies.

It’s not and he knows it. He’s disappointed.

He rubs at his chest on his way home thinking about the scene they just saw and about what Natasha said. How is it that so many people in his orbit had this entire entanglement going on without Peter having any whiff of it? It really makes him wonder if they were they good at hiding it or was he just really fucking stupid. Stupid enough to think Bucky was doing okay, that Rogers wasn’t as sanctimonious as he appeared to be, and that Tony was --

Nevermind.

It’s none of his business and it’s not his place.

He knows better than to ask. It’s not as if he can forget all his own secrets that he clutches tightly to his chest, so tight it feels like he constantly walks through life with his fists clenched.

That and, like May, the real truth is that he can’t claim any entitlement to their trust. He eavesdropped in more ways than one these last two weeks. He tries to brush off that dry, sobering thought; it’s none of his business anyway and he has enough on his plate without getting involved.

When are you going to stop being such a goddamned martyr.

So then he thinks about the sheer fury on Tony’s face, how his - how he used to look at Peter the same way, and how Peter used to think that angry and bitter was Tony's default mood. That was that. The status quo.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair, was it. It was easier to dislike Tony when he was distant enough that Peter could pigeon-hole him into a stereotype.

Because Tony got into fights, sure, countless and petty, but he was the guy who pet puppies and snuck them food under the table. Not the guy who kicked them.

He looked like the puppy that was kicked, though.

Not angry.

Wounded.

And that’s what confuses Peter. Turns out he doesn’t really know anything about his friends.

Or Tony, it would seem.

----

May closes the drivers-side door and throws a packet of snacks into Peter’s face.

“Pretzels.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he adjusts his glasses where they'd been knocked askew.

“Sorry, I thought your reflexes were better,” she says, and by way of apology, lobs a packet of sour gummies more gracefully on his lap. “Your favorite.”

“Apology accepted.”

From a plastic bag she fishes out two cokes and places them in the centre console, a bag of red licorice and crackers follow, also making their way onto his lap. She always buys too much food.

Then they’re turning back onto the highway that leads them out of where they paused at Monticello, the radio jacked up loud enough to be heard over the tiny droplets of raindrops sporadically hitting the windshield.

They’ve left early enough that it’s still dark.

Fog still hangs low on the roadside, intangible pale wisps that seem to disintegrate upon crossing, the road dotted with other travellers, but not too crowded, enough so they can easily cruise the speed limit and sometimes over. The Bangles play on a cassette tape and, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, May looks so carefree, driving her sentimental car with the noisy engine, singing along to the same cassettes she’s had since she was his age.

Peter can’t bring himself to say what he wants to. About the letters. One in particular. He knows something isn't right but who is he to break the peace?

So, he doesn’t and they keep driving.

The fog lifts and the tunes continue, both of them singing familiar tunes from ABBA to George Michael and Peter let’s go of what he can’t control and loses himself in the buoyancy of nostalgia - neither of them can carry a tune for shit and it’s funny, and when he rolls his window down he sticks his hand out to feel the frigid air, it’s the most free he’s felt in a long time.

Football and his after-school duties and everything else just drifts away with the wind, at least for this moment.

It was like when he was a kid. The route itself is mostly dark and dull, and this time without Ben, but their usual car games of ‘dollar every time you spot a windmill’ and ‘how many minutes until the next town’ are fun and easily pass the time. This will be another memory that he will gloss over with fondness, how even the boring roads will seem like rapture.

When the sky starts to turn from black to grey they stop for early breakfast at a diner just slightly off their trail in Windsor, both of them famished despite the hoard of snacks and in dire need of coffee.

The car is beginning to emit pale plumes of smoke from under the hood as they arrive at Davis Grove, Otisco Lake in the early morning. The sun rises low over the horizon, a slow ascent that turns the sky grey and brushes wriggling streaks of color over the lake.

The house is exactly as Peter remembers it.

Panels painted slate blue, brown-tiled roof. Two-storeys with a wrap-around porch and a private dock only a short distance away from the entrance. A swinging chair on the lawn that comfortably fits three and a half people.

It looks exactly as it did when Peter first came here as a kid, plucked straight out of his memories in perfect form, like it was set in a liminal space that time refused to touch. A piece comes back to his being at this moment, something that he didn’t know was missing.

Aunt Margaret is already standing at the door when the pull up. She doesn’t look a day older than when Peter last saw her years ago.

“Oh, look at you,” she coos, wrapping Peter up in a tight hug, curls brushing his cheek, “my darling little Petey-pie.”

“Hey, Aunt Margaret,” he returns the hug.

“You’re so tall now, let me look at you,” she holds him at arm's length, warm eyes roving over his form. “Oh my goodness, haven’t you grown a handsome young man? Last time we met you only came up to my shoulders and had braces.” She turns her attention to May. “Isn’t he handsome?”

His aunt nods, smiling at them, both women gravitating into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, Peggy. Thanks for having us.”

“Our pleasure. You look even more beautiful than the last time.”

“Oh, stop,” May releases her, wiping at her eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

She tilts her head to the porch and takes May’s duffle from where she has dropped it to the ground. “Come on you two, inside. We’ve got the fire going and scrambled eggs on the table.”

Inside it smells like the best parts of his childhood. A burning fire and butterscotch and lingering musky-but-floral scent from the bowl of potpourri high on the mantel. Even the sounds are the same, the same coo of early birds in the burgeoning daylight, someone humming by the stove.

Margaret leads them into the living room, where her husband meets them halfway from the kitchen, oven mitts still on his hands when he spreads his arms wide to welcome them.

“My goodness,” he beams, “look what the cat dragged in.”

He wears a cravat at the same time he wears an apron, looking every bit the formal yet whimsical man Peter remembers him to be and a crushing wave of nostalgia comes over him so suddenly he can’t help but rush forward and embrace him.

“Welcome, Peter. It’s so good to have you here.”

“Thanks for having us, Uncle Ed.”

“What have you taught him,” he points his query to May as he releases Peter to hug her. “You know you can call me Jarvis.”

---

Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter and Edwin Jarvis had been young twenty-somethings when they first met. Both were born in England before moving to the US, but it wasn’t until they met at Margaret’s first college that their paths crossed. They worked in different departments, Peter thinks Ed was an engineer or something and Margaret an analyst, but the universe pulled them together eventually.

Margaret asked Ed out first and then a year later, May was the maid-of-honor at their wedding and Ben was reportedly a teary guest in the squeaky church pews.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

A photo of that day sits framed upon the mantle. May and Margaret have their arms around each other, Uncle Ben and Ed standing awkwardly at the sides of the frame, holding up flutes of champagne.

They look so young. Happy.

Peter observes the photo, smiling. He would have been a baby back then. Before his parents and Ben had -- well.

His mind does these weird calculations sometimes. Like, the May in this photo is only nine or so years older than how old he is now, and this moment, suspended in time, makes them closer than they have ever been, even though in real life they are over twenty years apart.

Looking at this picture, it makes him wonder how many people he knows now will live full lives and die of old age. How many people his age will stay forever young, and who will be in the future looking back at their time now, wistfully staring at pictures of those who only exist suspended in that time.

It’s funny, being a teenager. His peers are too young to die so they assume they won't. Even in their twenties and thirties or forties, death seems like an elusive thing that doesn’t apply to anybody until it does. It’s for the decrepit, the sick.

But in Peter’s case death comes like poorly aimed darts, always landing badly and scoring low. In his pockets, his hands turn in fists. He hopes the three people left alive in this picture get to grow old.

He smells her perfume before he sees her. Margaret approaches, bumping their hips together.

“This was a nice day,” she says softly, wistful. “I wish we’d kept more contact over these last few years.”

“Me too,” he smiles sadly, her expression reflecting his. With a hand on his back she leads him to the couch.

“Come on, munchkin, come sit. Tell me how you have been.”

---

“We weren’t planning on the big dinner,” Uncle Ed says as he finishes peeling a potato, handing it to Peter once he’s done. “But we’re so glad you two joined us. Neither of us have a lot of family here, you know.”

“Us neither,” Peter runs the peeled potato under running water to rid it of dirty residue before chopping it into quarters. “It’s really nice to see you again, it’s been way too long.”

“You really have grown into such a nice young man,” the man smiles. “Ben would be proud. Your parent’s, too.”

“Thank you.”

They haven’t got together like this since Ben died a couple years back. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Shit happened and it got harder to try. May got busier with looking after Peter full time and working more - and Uncle Ed quit his job and opened up a garage and Margaret lost a baby - all at the same time.

It was a lot for everyone. Even college best friends moved apart when fate put up walls at every turn.

It seems everyone in his circle is just does their best to survive. Or maybe that’s just what growing up is.

The remainder of their morning is spent eyeing the oven and skedaddling while Margaret prepares her pecan pie, ejecting them out of the kitchen with a forceful shoo.

“May says you’re playing football,” Ed says, leading him out to the lounge, passing him a can of soda. “How’d that happen? Last I checked you were doing splits over a pommel horse.”

Peter shrugs, tapping his can with his fingernails, idly paying attention to the football on the old TV. “Needed an extra-curricular, there was an opening and for some reason they accepted me.”

“You were so good at gymnastics,” Margaret comments from the kitchen, whisking away at her bowl. “I’m sure you’re exemplary in anything you do. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, sculling back the rest of his drink, bubbles burning down his throat. “Looks good on college applications in any case.”

“This kid,” May points to him with her beer bottle. “He does it all, I don’t even know how. He’s brilliant.”

I could do more, he thinks. He wonders again in that moment what it is that makes him so deficient that May couldn’t rely on him to accept the truth about their situation, that maybe he was just too naive. But he’s not. He’d drop his after-school activities and get a job in a hot second if he thought it would help. And for just a split-second he’s mad about that, about being kept in the dark.

But then he sees the strain around her eyes, how the bottle in her hands trembles ever so slightly, how much she makes the hard world soft around them. And it’s easy for him to let that feeling go.

“You’re still freelancing?” Peter asks Margaret, momentarily distracted when Ed’s phone lights up with a call.

“Excuse me, terribly sorry,” he says suddenly, picking up the phone and answering it, rising to his feet to converse in the adjacent room.

“Yes,” Margaret says, eyes lingering over where her husband has gone, his voice carrying over the walls in worried, muffled tones. “Well, consulting. I can work from home, which makes it easier to take care of all my non-existent children,” she gestures to the empty room around them.

“You could go work with Jarvis,” May retrieves a new bottle, popping the cap. “Look after the books, help him replace tyres.”

“Tempting,” Margaret says dully, rolling her eyes. “Can’t understand why I haven’t done that yet.”

Jarvis re-enters minutes later, hands held out apologetically; whispering to Margaret first before he addresses the room.

“Um, we have another guest coming up for dinner, if that’s alright,” he winces at their blank faces. “He works for me. Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite. You know how it gets over the holidays.”

Peter meets May’s eyes and shrugs. Anyone working under the business and is vouched for by his surrogate uncle is good by him.

“The more the merrier,” May raises her bottle.

After that, the kitchen needs his hands again.

---

The afternoon is spent preparing the sides, checking in on the truly gargantuan turkey and indulging their cat with nibbles and head scratches. May and Margaret spend the time drinking beer and cider, reminiscing their college years. It’s nice to hear the house full of laughter, given how somber the mood was when they were last all together.

“When did you get a cat?” Peter directs his question to Jarvis, accepting a peeler from him to attack the carrots.

The cat in question is completely black and delightfully plump, not overly so, but enough to indicate it’s decently fed but probably also a little lazy. Or maybe he just thinks that now that it lies tall on the peak on its scratching post, tail flicking idly while it watches them work tirelessly in the kitchen from above.

“Oh, about a year ago. Gives Peggy some company while I'm in the garage. She’s a sweetheart, this one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Friday the Thirteenth. Friday for short.”

“That’s, um, unique.”

“Was the day we adopted her,” Jarvis reaches up to scratch her. “And she’s a black cat, so, you know; spooky.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it. “I like it.”

“Not bad, huh.”

“Yep. It’s a better name than Molly,” he mutters, shaking a slimy carrot shaving off his fingers.

Jarvis pauses. “As in Ringwald?”

Peter sighs and continues peeling.

----

“Did I ever tell you about the time May came to class in a bathing suit?”

“I don’t think they need to hear that --”

“So we have this exam,” Peggy says, ignoring May, “Super important. Fifty percent of our overall grade. She comes in late, dripping wet, the biggest hickey on her neck I have ever seen --”

“Peggy.”

“-- Only thing saving her modesty was Ben’s shirt over her shoulders. I had to lend her a pen so she could sit the exam.”

“Did you pass though,” Peter asks curiously, shovelling a large lump of mashed potato into his mouth.

“Top grades,” she winks at him.

“She sat there for two hours, dripping water onto the ground and got flying colors. Meanwhile I’m the idiot who studied for weeks and got marked down twenty points for --”

The end of her sentence gets cut off by the sound of a car approaching the property, headlights flashing through the windows.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Ah, that must be…” Ed trails off, wiping his hand on a napkin before standing. “Excuse me.”

He goes to answer the front door, Margaret continues her story albeit much more quietly until the voices of Ed and their guest filter through, becoming progressively louder.

“Sorry to intrude, I know it’s the holidays --”

Wait. That voice is familiar.

“Nonsense,” Ed interrupts, “you know you’re welcome anytime. You’re practically family, kid. Come in, we’re eating now, you’re just in time.”

Peter’s fork clangs loudly on his plate when he sees their visitor, unable to keep his grip on the utensil as his limbs start to tingle. He forgets how to breathe for a second, entire body going hot.

Ed’s arm is around Tony Stark and they’re approaching through the living room, heading right for them. There’s a fresh cut on his lip and an ugly, wreath of bruising around his jaw and neck, deeply purple, speckled spots of burst capillaries visible from even where he’s sitting.

The worst part isn’t the intrusion. It’s how Tony looks unlike himself; he looks small and skittish, gaze flicking nervously around the room, arms curled around his waist. Something in his chest starts to feel the closer he gets, weird, hot and unwieldy, burning, like a hot poker has been drawn across his sternum.

“You’re the best, Jar...vis,” Tony trails off when he spots the Parkers, eyes zeroing in on Peter.

“Um,” Peter says, sharing a surprised look with May, not knowing what else to say.

But then suddenly Tony is shaking his head, shrugging out of Ed’s embrace and backing up, the skittish look gone and replaced with anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. No fucking way.”

Then he turns, and leaves.

----

*

*

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